She had a fondness for sundresses.
Mother would wear a sundress on the hottest of days or in the dead of winter. She paid no mind to the cold. I recall one winter with snowdrifts nearly to the windowsill, and I found her humming happily in the kitchen, a short, white, flowered sundress fluttering about her frame. Mrs. Carter sat at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of happiness in her hands, and Mother told her she wore such dresses because they made her feel free. And she favored short dresses because her legs, she felt, were her best asset. She went on to say how Father was so fond of them. How he would caress them. How he enjoyed them on his shoulders, or wrapped around —
Mother spotted me at that point, and I took leave.
Porter knew little about golf. The idea of hitting a little white ball, then chasing after it for hours on end, did not appeal to him. While he understood it was challenging, he did not consider it a sport. Baseball was a sport. Football was a sport. Anything you could play at eighty years old while toting your oxygen tank and wearing pastel slacks would never be a sport in his book.
The restaurant was nice, though. He had taken Heather to the Chicago Golf Club two years ago for their anniversary and purchased the most expensive steak he had ever eaten. Heather had ordered the lobster and raved about it for weeks. A cop’s salary didn’t allow for much, but anything that made her happy was a worthwhile spend.
He pulled up to the large clubhouse and handed his keys to the valet. “Keep it close. We won’t be long.”
They had beaten the weather. While the sky appeared hazy, the dark storm clouds had paused over the city.
The lobby was large and well-appointed. Several members were gathered around a fireplace in the far corner overlooking the lush course just beyond french doors. Their voices echoed off the marble floor and mahogany wainscoting.
Nash whistled softly.
“If I catch you panhandling, I’ll make you wait in the car.”
“As this day progresses, I find myself regretting I didn’t wear a nicer suit,” Nash admitted. “This is a very different world than the one we putt around in, Sam.”
“Do you play?”
“The last time I held a golf club, I couldn’t get past the windmill. This here is big-boy golf. I don’t have the patience for it,” Nash replied.
A young woman sat at a desk near the center of the lobby. As they approached, she glanced up from her laptop and smiled. “Good morning, gentlemen. Welcome to the Chicago Golf Club. How may I help you?”
Behind her gleaming white smile, Porter could sense her sizing them up. She hadn’t asked if they had a reservation, and he doubted that was an oversight. He pulled out his badge and held it up to her. “We’re looking for Arthur Talbot. His wife said he was playing today.”
Her smile faded as her eyes darted from the badge to Porter, then Nash. She picked up the receiver on her desk and dialed an extension, spoke softly, then disconnected. “Please take a seat. Someone will be with you in a moment.” She gestured toward a couch in the far corner.
“We’re fine, thank you,” Porter told her.
The smile again. She returned to her computer, slim, manicured fingers bouncing across the keys.
Porter checked his watch. Nearly 9:00 a.m.
A man in his mid-fifties entered the lobby from a door to their left. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed neatly back, his dark-blue suit pressed to perfection. As he approached, he extended his hand to Porter. “Detective. I’ve been told you’re here to see Mr. Talbot?” His grip was soft. Porter’s father had called it a dead fish shake. “I’m Douglas Prescott, senior manager.”
Porter flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Porter, and this is Detective Nash with Chicago Metro. This is extremely urgent. Do you know where we can find Mr. Talbot?”
The blond woman was watching them. When Prescott glanced at her, she turned back to her laptop. His gaze returned to Porter. “I believe Mr. Talbot’s party had a seven-thirty tee time, so they’re out on the course. You’re more than welcome to wait for him. You’ll find a fine complimentary breakfast in the dining room. If you like cigars, our humidor is top-notch.”
“This can’t wait.”
Prescott frowned. “We don’t disturb our guests during play, gentlemen.”
“We don’t?” Nash said.
“We do not,” Prescott insisted.
Porter rolled his eyes. Why did everyone seem to go out of their way to make things difficult? “Mr. Prescott, we don’t have the time or patience for this. The way I see it, you’ve got two choices. You can take us to Mr. Talbot, or my partner here will arrest you for obstruction, handcuff you to that desk, and start shouting Talbot’s name until he comes to us. I’ve seen him do it — the man is loud. It’s your choice, but I honestly think option A will prove least disruptive to your business.”
The receptionist stifled a chuckle.
Prescott shot her an angry glance, then stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Mr. Talbot is a substantial contributor and personal friends with your boss, the mayor. They played together just two weeks ago. I don’t think either would be happy to learn two officers were willing to blemish the record of Chicago Metro by threatening civilians simply for doing their job. If I were to call him right now and tell him you were here, preparing to make a scene, he would no doubt refer you to his attorney before he would consider taking the time to speak with you.”
Nash pulled the handcuffs from his belt. “I’m arresting this little shit, Sam. I want to see how well he holds up in the tank surrounded by crackheads and bangers. I’m sure Ms.” — he glanced down at the blond woman’s name tag — “Piper will be more than willing to help us out.”
Prescott’s face grew red.
“Take a deep breath and think carefully about the next thing you say, Mr. Prescott,” Porter warned.
Prescott rolled his eyes, then turned to Ms. Piper. “Where is Mr. Talbot’s party now?”
She pointed a pink-shellacked finger at her monitor. “They just pulled up to the sixth hole.”
“You have video?” Nash asked.
She shook her head. “Our golf carts are equipped with GPS trackers. It allows us to watch for bottlenecks and keep everyone’s game moving efficiently.”
“So if someone is playing slow, you pluck them off the course and take them to the kiddy range?”
“Nothing that drastic. We may send a pro out to give them a few tips. Help them move along,” she explained.
“Can you give us a ride out there?”
She eyed Prescott. He raised both hands in defeat. “Just go.”
Ms. Piper plucked her purse from beneath her desk and gestured toward a hallway at the west end of the building. “This way, gentlemen.”
A moment later they were in a golf cart heading down a cobblestone path. Ms. Piper was driving, with Porter beside her and Nash on a small bench behind them. He cursed as they hit a bump, bouncing him in the seat.
Porter